


The Sidewalks Are Watching Me Think About You

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 08:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11227521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: There is some controversy among her friends and family when Clarke Griffin decides to work as a nurse.Not from Bellamy, though. Bellamy thinks it's a great idea.





	The Sidewalks Are Watching Me Think About You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enoughtotemptme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/gifts).



> My last giveaway fic! Julia wanted a period piece because she's been watching a lot of _Call the Midwife_ , so I just watched a few episodes and then pretended I was doing a period piece without putting much effort in. So, you know, the usual.

" _You_ wouldn't end your engagement to someone over her choice of career, would you?" Clarke asks, by way of greeting, when she comes into his shop one morning.

It's a question Bellamy has to give some serious thought to, less because he's unsure of the answer and more because she's the one asking it. _Of course not_ , as a reply, may only serve to make her feel worse, if her fiance is truly threatening to break it off.

Not that he thinks that would be such a great loss, if he's honest, but he understands that he's biased. His own reactions to these things are suspect.

"I don't see why it matters what I'd do. I assume the problem is what Finn is doing."

n

Clarke sighs, pulling up his spare stool and sitting next to him with a heavy sigh. "It matters because there's some debate over which one of us is being unreasonable."

"I would have assumed your mother would be on your side," he says, after a pause to think over where the issue might be. "She worked, and she seemed to be happy you were doing the same."

"It's not the working. It's the _work_. You know how charity is. There are correct ways to be charitable, and this isn't one of them, not for someone of my station."

"It's not charity," he points out. "It's a perfectly acceptable career for some people."

"That's part of the problem too. I don't need to work for a living, so why would I?"

"Because you'd die of boredom being a housewife. To say nothing of being wasted."

Her smile is quick, but doesn't quite meet her eyes. She looks worn out, and he wonders if she spent the whole morning having this argument. It wouldn't surprise him, but it is awful. She's been so proud of her studies, of becoming a nurse, and it twists him up inside, that so many people who claim to care about her were proud only up until she said she wanted to use her newfound skills in the wrong way.

"I wouldn't want to marry anyone who'd break off the engagement over something like this," he adds, making his voice gentle. "But that's just me."

"No, it's not just you," she agrees, making his heart lurch. "I think that's where I've ended up too. This is probably the end of us. I don't think--I'm sure, given time, he'd forgive me, and say he's come to accept my decision."

"How magnanimous of him."

She inclines her head with the ghost of a smile. "I'm sure he thinks so. But--as I said, I don't know if this is something _I_ can forgive. He asked if I cared more for my chosen career than I did for him, and--it's a bad question to ask, if one isn't sure of the answer."

He has to grin. "I imagine so."

"I'd like to say it's all over, but I'm sure it will take much longer than I'd like to actually end everything."

"But it is over for you," he says. He can't help it.

"I think it must be." She leans back, closing her eyes, and corrects herself. "No, it is. I'm sure Finn will try to tell me it's an overreaction, but if it was, he started it. And it wasn't like I was so wild about marrying him in the first place," she adds, which he knew was true, but always felt like a cold comfort. He would have preferred if she'd been happy, honestly. "I do think my mother will support me," she adds, thoughtful. "In the end."

"You do?"

"As you said, she worked herself. Not like this, not--"

"She did appropriate work for a lady."

"I don't see how anyone can speak of Christian charity but not support my helping those who need it the most. The pay isn't very much, but I don't _need_ very much pay. I already have to much money, so I don't see why I wouldn't give to help others."

"I don't either." He flashes her a teasing grin. "You know I think you're right, Clarke. You don't have to convince me."

"Think of it as a rehearsal. I'll be having this argument a great deal, in the next few weeks."

"But you're certain."

"I'm certain, yes."

"Then I'm happy for you, Nurse Griffin."

This time, her smile is bright, like the sun, without any trace of shadow. So long as he can make her smile like that, life can't be so bad. "Thank you, Mr. Blake. I'm happy for myself too."

*

It doesn't feel right to Bellamy to say that he grew up _with_ Clarke Griffin. Clarke grew up with people like Wells and Roan, people of her own class. He and Clarke grew up in proximity to each other, an accident of fate. His mother worked in her household, and he did too, until he was old enough to apprentice with a carpenter. But even once he did, he'd go back to the Griffin house to visit his mother and his sister, and to visit Clarke too. Without siblings of her own, she'd enjoyed having other children to play with, and although she'd been closer in age to his sister, the two of them had always gotten along better than she and Octavia did. Clarke always seemed too old and too serious for her own good.

His mother did warn him, of course, that he could never marry her. The warning had been unnecessary; even at eleven, he'd understood that he and Clarke were different. That their worlds only overlapped, that they weren't and never would be the same.

If anything, he understood it better, back then. As a child, he always knew that, someday, his life and Clarke's life would diverge. He was sure they couldn't stay friends forever, and so the longer they do, the harder it is to remember that it won't ever be more than this.

Just because he's in love with her, it doesn't mean that he can have her. 

When Finn Collins proposed and she accepted, he tried, very hard, to find someone of his own. But, as it turns out, the worst reason to begin a relationship is to squash feelings for someone else, and all it did was make him feel like a bastard. So he'd thought he would just wait for time to do the work for him, even if it didn't appear to be doing any good.

Her ending the engagement shouldn't make a difference either, not really. She'll find someone else to marry, or she won't, but _he's_ still not a prospect for her.

Still, when his sister comes to his workshop and says, "I assume you know Clarke's engagement fell through," he can't escape the swoop of foolish joy in his stomach.

"I knew she was planning to break it off," he says, keeping his voice light. "I didn't realize it had already happened."

"I assume that when you realize you don't want to marry someone, you want to end it as soon as possible. I'd certainly want to."

"Well, no one cares whom you marry," he says without thinking, and she kicks his ankle gently, making him laugh. "I didn't mean it like _that_. I care that you marry someone you care about who cares about you. And one who isn't a drunk. I'd rather he could support you, as well, so--"

"So you care very much whom I marry."

"I care most that you love him. But when you're rich you have to worry about other things too. Finn was a good prospect for Clarke, and now she'll be known for being difficult and stubborn."

"Anyone who's met her already knows she's difficult and stubborn, I don't see why it's suddenly a surprise."

"I think it's different when you have money. No one wants to put up with _you_ because you're poor, but she--" Octavia elbows him, and he laughs. "Honestly, I didn't think she'd be able to be _too_ difficult and stubborn to find a husband, but this might do it."

"Because she'll be corrupted by the poor?" she asks, sounding dubious. 

"I think it's more of a problem of priorities." He finishes sanding the table leg he was working on and holds it up for her approval. She nods. "If she's working as a nurse in the poorest neighborhood in town for most of the hours of the day, she doesn't have time to be the kind of wife people in her class want." He shrugs. "It seems stupid to me, but that kind of thing always seems stupid to me."

"Do you think she can just marry you yet?"

"How dire do her prospects have to be before I'm a viable option, do you think?" he asks. "I've never been sure." He stands and stretches, trying to not look at his sister without being too obvious about it. "I think she'd rather just not marry, honestly. She doesn't need to be in a rush, that's for sure."

Octavia considers him. "Have you ever talked to her about it?"

"About what, marriage? No, I haven't. We're not marrying friends, O."

"Well, why not? You know you're not a bad prospect, now. You're making a name for yourself, and you're well-regarded. If she's desperate for a husband--"

"You make it sound so appealing," he grumbles. In many ways, he knows she's right. He suspects there are ladies who would be thrilled to have someone like him for a husband. Some of them might even be of Clarke's station. But--he has history with Clarke, and such things are a double-edged sword. "She's not desperate for a husband, and I'm not desperate for a wife. But if I ever am, I'll ask her."

"I just don't think you should sell yourself short, Bell. I didn't mean you would have to be a last resort for you to marry her."

"Who said I'm selling myself short?" he asks, with a teasing smile. "I'm happy with where I am. And I'm happier that she isn't marrying Finn," he admits. "I never liked him."

She rolls her eyes. "You don't say." 

"I would have tried to like him," he says. "If he hadn't been quite such an ass." 

"It wouldn't have worked."

"No," he grants. "But I would have felt a little worse about it."

"Well," says Octavia, with a somewhat exasperated smile. "So long as you would have felt bad."

*

It's hard for Bellamy to predict what impact Clarke's new career will have on him. She moves from her parents' home to a boarding house in the city, one closer to her work, but still not in the neighborhoods she'll actually be serving, a compromise with her mother, in the interest of her safety. And, to his shock, when she proposed finding a boarding house near to _him_ , in case there was an emergency, her mother agreed. Maybe his sister was right, and now that Finn is gone, Mrs. Griffin is coming around on him as an option. And Clarke's always said she'd like to see more of him.

So the first change to his life is simple: he sees her every morning, on her way to work.

"I brought you breakfast," she tells him the first time. "Your sister's always saying you're too busy for breakfast."

"I am too busy for breakfast," he says, but he accepts the food she hands him. "I didn't think of it as a problem you needed to solve for me."

"It's not," she agrees. "But--I'm nervous about starting work. So I was going to sit here and eat until I felt better. And it felt rude doing that if I didn't bring something for you too."

He _does_ have a lot to get done before he opens the shop, but she's sitting at his table, staring down at her hands, and that takes priority.

"Nervous?"

"I'm good with medicine," she says. "I'm not always good with people."

"I think they care a lot more about the medicine," he tells her, and she smiles.

"Why do you think I wanted to be a real nurse? I can't even imagine myself giving Christian comfort."

He gives it a try himself, has to swallow a smile at the very idea. It's not that Clarke lacks empathy, but she likes _fixing_ problems. He'd give her about five minutes of sitting by someone's bedside telling them how brave they were in the face of hardship before she started asking questions about what care they were receiving and if the doctors had really tried everything. 

"You always make me feel better," he says, and makes sure to pause before he adds, "Eventually."

"That's because you always want advice. Even when you think you don't."

It's true, and probably the heart of her anxiety. Wanting to help isn't bad, but Clarke gets frustrated when people disagree with her, when she thinks they aren't being _logical_ , and home medicine is full of superstition and misinformation. He's heard all sorts of cures for all sorts of ailments that are supported by nothing more than tradition, but no one wants to be talked out of the remedy their old gran swore by.

"You're going to be fine," he says. "Just--whenever someone says something you disagree with, tell them the right thing to do, and save up all your opinions about what they're doing wrong to tell me later. As long as whatever home remedy they have won't hurt them, just let it go. And, again. Complain to me about it when you're done."

She smiles a little. "This is why I brought you breakfast. So you could tell me these things."

"And when you bring me breakfast tomorrow, you can give me a rundown of everything that went wrong today."

"Tomorrow?" she asks, her voice a little off, and he laughs.

"Tonight, if you want to come over after you're done. But you might have better things to do."

"I brought breakfast," she says. "So you can make dinner."

"How generous of you," he teases. But--she wants to spend more time with him. He's never going to object to that. And she still looks a little anxious, so he reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. "You're going to do well, Clarke. If I thought it was a bad idea, I would have told you."

"Everyone else did."

"So I certainly would have too."

"You do like to tell me when I'm wrong." She bites her lip on a smile. "I am excited," she admits. "This is what I want."

"Good. Then I'll see you tonight?"

"Tonight," she agrees.

He doesn't entirely expect the meals to become a daily tradition. He doesn't mind, of course, but he hadn't been _sure_. But she comes the first night, and the second, and the third and fourth, and he just starts to take it for granted. She joins him for dinner and tells him about her patients, flushed with excitement and pride about things that go well, and pragmatic and thoughtful about those that go poorly. She rants about ignorance, but her ire is directed where it should be, at a lack of education, rather than at the people who are uneducated, and he's just as upset about that as she is, so he's happy to rant with her.

On the third night of her second week as a nurse, she doesn't come. It doesn't bother him so much that she misses dinner--they agreed that he eats at seven, and if she isn't there, he should eat without her, after she was late a few nights back.

But she still _came_ , once she was done, and when she doesn't this time, he tosses and turns all night, worrying that something awful happened to her.

To his profound relief, she comes for breakfast in the morning the same as always, looking tired and a little worn down, but fine, aside from that. Nothing to worry about that he can see.

"Fuck, I was so worried," he says, not even bothering with a greeting, and she laughs in surprise.

"Worried?"

"You didn't come last night."

"No, but--" She smiles. "I didn't think you'd panic. One of my patients went into labor at three and didn't come out of it until--well, about an hour ago."

He stares at her. "You haven't slept at all?"

"No. There are emergencies sometimes," she teases gently. "For nurses. I know no one ever needs a table made in the middle of the night, but--"

He rolls his eyes, but he's still waiting for his pulse to return to normal. "I thought something might have happened to you," he admits, and she sobers, realizing the depth of his concern.

"I'm sorry. There wasn't any good way to tell you."

"I know." He gives her half a smile. "But you know I worry."

"I do. Once I'm familiar with my patients, I should start to know when I have someone who might need care outside my normal hours so I can warn you, but--emergencies will happen, Bellamy. And you don't have a telephone."

"I could get a telephone," he grumbles.

She doesn't respond, just takes his hand and gives it a soft squeeze. "I'm sorry I worried you."

"Are you at least going to get some sleep?"

"Yes, I'm going back to the boarding house after this. Harper's taking my appointments for the day, and I'll be able to rest."

"Good. How's the baby?"

"Healthy. Strong. A girl."

"I'm glad," he says. The panic is fading, and he's starting to feel sheepish. "Sorry for--I'm glad it went well. You're good at this, you know."

"All I did was not lose the first baby I helped deliver," she says, but she's smiling. "Thank you. I'll tell you more about it at dinner, but--I do need to go home and get some sleep."

"You do. Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for worrying," she says, and then she's gone.

She's back earlier than usual, around four o'clock, with a man from the telephone company.

"If you're going to be worrying over me, I might as well help," she says, not looking at him. "If you call the sisters before eight or so, they'll be able to tell you where I am. Or the boarding house could help you."

"You don't have to," he says. "I can go next door, or--"

"I'll feel better too," she says. "If I can let you know if there's a problem. And you know I can afford it."

He's been meaning to get one, but it never felt that pressing. He has one here at the store, but he wouldn't want to come in after closing to check in on her. And if she needed to call him, he wouldn't know.

So instead of arguing, he hands her the key to his house. "You can get yourself a copy made while you're at it," he offers. "It would be easier."

To his delight, she smiles, looking genuinely moved by the gesture. "In case I get in too late."

"Just in case," he agrees.

*

It's not exactly as if she's moved into his house, but it's closer than he expected. If not for the incredible impropriety of it, he'd ask if she wanted to, and sometimes he still thinks about it. It would be easier if she just lived here, instead of stopping by on her way to and from work.

His sister is keeping quiet about it, and Miller has always avoided conversations about feelings with a dedication that's inspirational, which means that he hasn't had to try to explain himself. Everyone seems to be happy to just leave him alone, and he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When it does, it's not at all what he expects.

It's a Friday, about three months into Clarke's service as a nurse. She's less frustrated with it than she expected, and he's more frustrated. Their desire to help people is something they have in common, but Clarke is _doing something_ , and he's just hearing about all the things that upset her, feeling frustrated and powerless. No matter how successful he gets, he'll still think of these people as _his_ people, and it's harder than he ever thought it would be to hear about the problems they have. Not the medical ones, but the practical ones--not enough food, poor lodgings, insufficient education. 

"You'd have so much less to do if we had groundwork. Money would help too," he says, before she can. "But it's not just money. You know that. It's schools and government housing and--if we're giving aid, why aren't we giving _better_ aid?"

Clarke is smiling a little. "Because no one cares to."

"You look awfully pleased about that," he says.

"Do you know why I became a nurse?"

"Because you were terrified of being a housewife," he says, and she laughs.

"I was. But there were plenty of other things I could have become besides a housewife."

"Then, no, I don't know why you became a nurse, specifically. I thought it probably had to do with your mother, when I thought about it. But it seemed like a good fit for you too."

"It was you," she says, to his surprise. "I remember what happened to your father, and your mother. And how worried you were when your sister got sick when we were children."

"Your mother made sure she lived," he says, mouth gone dry.

"She did, and you always said how lucky you were." Her shrug is self-conscious. "I wanted to do some good, and you showed me how I could. But I'm not surprised you're jealous now," she adds, letting a note of teasing creep into her voice. 

" _Jealous_?" he splutters.

"Aren't you?"

It hadn't occurred to him, in those terms, and he has to stop to think it over.

"No," he says, slowly. "Not exactly. But I'd like to be doing more. I could be. Like you are."

He's spent so much of his life feeling as if he's trying to keep his head above water, he hadn't quite realized that he'd managed it.That he'd gotten to a good place, and now he can either rest, or find something else to fight for.

"You could. I have some ideas," Clarke adds, and he laughs.

"You've been thinking about this?"

She shifts a little, but she seems more thoughtful than uncomfortable. "There are things the rich can do more easily than other people. But--there are things men can do more easily than women. Things like running for office."

"You want me to run for office?" he asks, surprised.

"It's a good place to start, if you want to make a difference. I bet you have a lot of ideas." 

It's true in the same way it's always been true; he's always had a whole world of opinions on how to make the world better, and never had very many people who would listen to him. Clarke and Miller, and his sister when he could make her sit still.

But it's like O said, isn't it? He's not like he was. He's a known and respected part of the community, someone people look up to. He's made, if not always friends, at least allies of other local merchants. 

And he wants to help.

"You weren't going to mention this?" he asks Clarke.

"It's a new idea. When I had dinner with my mother the other day, Cage Wallace was there, talking about how he's hoping to be re-elected, and he was talking about all his terrible policies, and I wanted someone better to be involved in government. And as soon as I thought that, of course you were the first person I thought of. But I was still working out the details."

He sits down next to her and nudges her shoulder. "Then work them out with me. I'm the one you're signing up for politics. I should have some say."

"I thought I might have to talk you into it."

"No, I'm sold. I probably would have come up with it myself, if I'd been at a terrible dinner with Cage Wallace."

"You would have punched him," she teases. But then she pauses, looking thoughtful. "I've been thinking about these things a lot, recently."

"What I should be doing with my life?"

"What I need to be happy. I lost almost all the things I was supposed to have--I don't see my mother very often, I don't have a big house or servants, I've lost my fiance and I'm working full time. By all rights, I should be miserable. This is the definition of hard times, for people like me. And I've never been happier."

She's not looking at him, and his throat feels like one endless lump. "What does that have to do with me?"

"A great deal," she says. "Haven't you noticed you're the only thing I kept?"

Somehow, he hadn't. But as soon as she says it, he knows exactly what she means. She sees her mother once a fortnight or so. She's made new friends among the other nurses. And she still has Wells and Roan, when she wants them. But he's the one she sees every day, the one she tells her stories too. And it's not as if he wasn't that for her before, but--

Like she said, he's the one she kept.

"I'm happy, Clarke," he says, and means it.

"You are. But you could be happier. And I know you. I know what would make you happy."

It's a somewhat surreal statement, coming from the woman he's in love with. But it's not _wrong_ , either. What she's proposing sounds good. And it involves a lot of her. A lot of the two of them, together. His happiness is vital to hers; he's her person. They don't have to be married, for the two of them to be together and thriving.

"You've got a pretty good idea," he agrees. "I'm sure we can figure it out."

*

It isn't such a huge shift, not right away. Bellamy's always been involved in the community, always opinionated and unable to keep his mouth shut when he thinks someone is wrong. But he's never been thinking about positioning himself as a leader, and now it's there, in the back of his mind. He starts mentioning political aspirations, and no one seems particularly surprised. If anything, it seems as if it was a common assumption that this was coming, that it was only a matter of time before Bellamy realized he'd achieved all he wanted to, and found a new goal.

But it does keep him busy, busier than he realizes. There are meetings to attend and constituents to charm, research to do into how to run and what to run for. Clarke helps as much as she can, using her own name and connections to his benefit, finding the people who agree with him and making sure they know he exists. But she has her own work, her own life, and often enough they only manage to meet for breakfast to check in about their days. 

Which is why it's so disconcerting and scary, the morning she doesn't show up to eat with him.

He'd had a dinner of his own the previous night, and she'd said she'd try to come but probably wouldn't make it, since she had a late appointment. She's missed breakfast before, but usually when she does, she has a chance to warn him. But this appointment hadn't been anything exceptional, a routine checkup on a patient that shouldn't have lasted much past eight o'clock.

She'd told him she'd see him today. She'd been looking forward to hearing how his dinner went. And he hadn't thought to worry about not seeing her before, because he had so much else to to. It had been easy to just assume their schedules were unaligned.

He's never been more glad she got him the phone. He's not sure what he would have done if he had to go all the way to the shop to call the convent. He probably would have skipped it and gone straight to the convent.

But the phone is right here, and when he calls, someone is even there to answer.

"Sister Monroe?" he guesses.

"Yes, this is Monroe," she says, with forced cheer. "How may I help you?"

"It's Bellamy. I was wondering if you--"

"Bellamy! Thank goodness. We tried calling last night, but you weren't home and the other sisters thought it wasn't _appropriate_ to call again once it got too late," she says. He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "That would be a reason to just give her a ring," she adds, as if this is a conversation they have often. "Or skip the engagement and marry her right away."

"Monroe," he says, trying to keep his voice somewhat calm. "Why were you trying to call? Is she okay?"

"She's been taken to the hospital."

His stomach drops to the floor. "Why? Which one? Is she--"

"There was a problem with her last patient last night. She gave the woman some advice her husband didn't like, and the husband decided to take it out on Clarke."

"Fuck," he breathes.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," says Monroe. "She's been hurt, but she's in no immediate danger. And I believe the man was arrested."

"Hurt," he echoes, with somewhat blank horror. But--she's not in danger. Monroe would tell him, if she was. He lets out a breath. "Which hospital?"

He forces himself to go to the store and put a sign out saying that he's closed for the day before he bikes over to the hospital. The whole time, he can't help thinking that if he hadn't been working for office, if he'd been at home instead of at the dinner, then he would have known. He would have been there when they called him, and he could have--

He couldn't have done much, really. But he would have known sooner. He could have been with her.

It's only when he gets to the hospital that he realizes he might _not_ be able to be with her. That he might have to sit in the waiting area until they let her out.

Which he'll do, of course. But he'll hate it.

"I'm here to see Clarke Griffin," he tells the woman at the desk.

She doesn't look up. "Name?"

"Bellamy Blake."

"Oh, the fiance," she says, with a casualness that is actually alarming. "Yes, she's been asking for you. Second floor, room six. Good thing you're here, she should be released soon. You can take her home."

It's a lot of information, but he doesn't really care about most of it. Clarke probably said he was her fiance so they'd let him in, and he _is_ planning to take her home as soon as he's allowed to. They'll get a taxi and he can pick his bike up later. And he can see her. That's all that really matters.

"Thank you," he tells the woman, flashing her a quick smile, and then he's on his way, taking the stairs two at a time.

He hears her before he sees her, her voice carefully measured as she says, "If you just let me use the telephone, I can call my fiance and--"

He knocks on the door frame, offering her and the doctor a friendly smile. She _is_ bruised, and her left arm is in a cast, but her smile at the sight of him is unstrained. She looks awake and alert and somewhat annoyed, once she looks back at the doctor, and the relief is so great it's almost staggering.

"Hey, I'm here," he says. "Sorry, apparently the sisters thought it was too late to call me last night." He offers his hand to the doctor. "Bellamy Blake. I can take her home if she's ready to go."

"More than ready," she grumbles, and he has to smile. She's in a foul mood, which is so much better than her being hurt. 

But she _is_ still hurt, because she reaches for him with her uninjured hand. He takes it, putting her full attention on her. There's bruising on her face, and her knuckles are split, as if she got a solid hit on her attacker in too. But her eyes are bright, and the police already got the man who did it.

"Hi," he says. "You look like shit."

She smiles. "I know. But I feel a lot better than I look."

"I believe you. But I'm not taking you home until the doctor tells me I can."

Her mouth tugs up in a smile. "And Dr. Jackson said I wasn't going home until I had someone to take me, so we should all be agreed that I can leave with you."

"Your mother has training, she can--" the doctor tries. Bellamy assumes they've been having this argument all morning.

"I'm going home with Bellamy," she says, polite, but with a heart of steel beneath the words. "And if you don't tell me I can do it soon, I'm just going to get up and leave."

He squeezes her fingers. "You don't have to threaten the doctor, Clarke."

But apparently it worked, because he says, "I want to see you back the day after tomorrow. And I don't want you back at work before then. Get some _rest_ , Clarke," he adds, and she smiles.

"I'll think about it."

"That's the best I can hope for, yes. I'm glad you're all right. It was nice to meet you, Bellamy."

He's still holding her hand, so when they're alone, he lets himself lean in to wrap his arms around her, careful, and she hugs back as best she can with her cast.

"Fuck. I was so scared. I thought you just didn't come because it was late, not--"

"I know."

"You couldn't have gotten them to call me?"

"I told them to this morning, but you must have been on your way already."

Part of him wants to ask at what point she told them they were _engaged_ , but the rest of him knows it's not really the time to bring that up. And he knows why she said that, and he's glad she did, so--there's nothing to talk about.

He kisses her hair and pulls back.

"As soon as you didn't show up for breakfast I called the convent and Monroe told me where you were and I left. They probably called after that."

"Probably. Thanks for coming."

He tucks her hair away from her face. "Thanks for scaring me to death."

"You're still alive," she says, with a fond smile. "So it can't have been that bad."

"It was," he says, honest, and she sobers too.

"I know. But--I'm fine, Bellamy."

"Good," he says. "Let's get you home."

He gives the taxi driver his address, and Clarke doesn't object. She finds his hand again on the seat and takes it, and he flips his palm over so he can squeeze back.

"Did you close for the whole day, or just the morning?" she asks, and his mouth twitches.

"What do you think?"

"You didn't have to."

"Clarke."

"We can go over this afternoon," she suggests, and he raises her hand up to kiss it. It feels safe, against all the odds. It feels like something he should be doing.

And she smiles, so he's probably right.

He has to let go of her to leave the cab, but she reclaims his hand as they walk to his door, so as soon as they're in private, he tugs her in and kisses her, and she kisses back, and it's _absurd_ , how easy it is. Her mouth is warm and she's smiling and he thinks he could stay here forever.

"I didn't know we were engaged," he murmurs, letting his hands trail up her sides, mindful of the bruises he assumes are lurking under her clothes.

"That was next on my list," she says. Her cheeks are a little flushed. "I was just trying to figure out the right argument."

"Did you find it, or are you just accepting that your mother won't ever approve?"

"My mother?" she asks, and laughs, bright. "The right argument for _you_. To convince you--"

He leans in to kiss her again, deeper and rougher this time, a kiss full of promise and passion that makes her melt.

"I know you're used to having to convince everyone in the world that you're right about everything," he teases, gentle, "but you didn't have to try so hard for this one. I've been wanting to marry you since I was ten years old, Clarke. If I thought you could do it, I would have just asked you myself."

"Because I'm always so worried about what I can and can't do," she says, with a kind of fond exasperation. "I just--even if you were interested in marrying _me_ , I thought you wouldn't want the bother of marrying someone with so much--" She gestures, and it's his turn to laugh.

"Yes, who'd want to marry his rich, beautiful, intelligent best friend? I can't think of anything worse."

"I was going to tell you what a good wife I'd be for a politician," she says. "That's the angle I thought I could work from."

"You always make things so complicated." He catches her mouth with his, once, twice, just doesn't give up on kissing her until his mouth feels half numb. "I'd rather you were just a good wife for me," he finally tells her. "If it's all the same to you."

He remembers how she looked when she said she was going to marry Finn, a little guarded, a little cautious, as if she was more worried about his reaction than excited for the engagement. 

It's nothing compared to her smile now, all wide and bright with joy. This is what she always wanted, the same as he did. This is how it should be.

"That does sound much easier," she says. "When you put it like that."

*

The first morning he wakes up with Clarke already in his house, already in his _bed_ , her bare limbs tangled in his and her hair in his mouth, it's just as much of an improvement to his life as he knew it would be. It's everything he's wanted, for longer than he's even known to want it.

"Are you out of projects yet?" he asks, as he makes them breakfast. It's much easier to motivate himself to cook when he has a wife around to cook for. It's nice, taking the mornings slow with her.

"Hm?"

"You're a nurse, I'm on the city council, we're married. As far as I know, that was the end of your to-do list. So is that it? Are you done?"

"Done?" she asks. "I'm just getting started."

He grins, leans over to give her a kiss. "Good. Me too."


End file.
